Oh my sweet little monk who knows More Beatles songs than I You are still like an ember that glows Still here wrapped in my bones You still take me by surprise As you uprise
Your voice, powerful beyond measure Not to be contained by the small frame Like a pearlescent treasure I forget to notice it change Day by day as you engage, emerge, rearrange Find your way
Lean in, draw your bow As you wrap your arm around the trunk of the Bodhi tree. Listen as its secrets rumble low The wind whistles past our front door Among its clamour are sweet notes singing Ringing a decade and still more Days to walk your path Adventures to come Songs to be sung, glistening, luminous, flowersome You’ve only just begun
May I sing the song of the gods and the origins of the gods. May I dream in prose set to a distant Andalusian cadence, Circling as it steps down with a smile and a swagger. I inhale exhale to the metronome of my body as I drift, My thoughts like the sliding weight on the pendulum bar – lifting with the slowing tempo.
Yes, this chapter
laid wide open on my table, where seeing it daily I sometimes forget to notice
but I know it
It speaks full, ancient wisdom, well-versed
more than the woman ascribed in the fibers of the pages
ink sinking into congruent possibilities
The words fly, orbiting betwixt and between my eyes and ears
serendipitous unravelings
unbound
flying freely off the pages
I gently turn the page
allowing the next chapter to rise to the surface
as sunlight shines on open space
So I will speak more, early
even resonate some chapters in bold proclamations
for my future requires no apology in its predication
And here I find myself stepping in pattern
me across from you
my voice and yours
I see the love in your eyes
knowing that moving and speaking on this beautiful journey
binds my disjointed bits
The woman in these pages is me
my eyes, composed know my soul
I am primed to practice - I am ready
I feel my voice vibrate in my chest
sinking into simultaneous possibilities
We lay still, minds untangled
eyes closed
stillness after chaos
my breath like waves on the shore of my heart
and
laying complexity aside
eyes closed, composed
know my soul
My response to NaPoWriMo.net Day Thirty – the last day of National Poetry Writing Month. The prompt was to “write a palinode – a poem in which you retract a view or sentiment expressed in an earlier poem.” I am unsure if this is truly a contradiction of my poem, Woven in Patterns, written on Day One, but perhaps a different perspective. Both poems reflect my experience practicing TaKeTiNa which is a meditative, musical, group rhythm process. I have found practicing TaKeTiNa regularly with my husband, who is one of the few TaKeTiNa teachers in the US, has been incredibly self-revealing and transformative. You can find out more about TaKeTiNa here and if you live near the Dallas area you can come and experience TaKeTiNa for yourself – or if you live in another part of the world I encourage you to explore if TaKeTiNa is offered in your area.
The forsythia in the sloped gap between 84 and Asylum Ave
were like harbingers.
They covered the hillside in gold, announcing the hope of brighter days ahead
and sowing forgetfulness, even forgiveness
in muddy dirty snowmounds and roadsides.
We would notice them for just a few weeks each year
when you drove me to my music lesson -
and together we tasted morsels of treasured co-wisdom unboxed
in the subtle joyful release of winter’s long longing.
“begin by reading Bernadette Mayer’s poem “The Lobelias of Fear.” Now write your own poem titled “The ________ of ________,” where the first blank is a very particular kind of plant or animal, and the second blank is an abstract noun.
I missed seeing the forsythia release their golden petals this year.
April flew by
And found her often writing, but not much. In times past she had written with habitual whole-hearted determination. But those were springtimes gone by when loss seemed impending. Then she wrote
As if a well-penned string
of convincing verse
might somehow change her course. But now,
As foretold,
As full as life was she
Abandoned fear,
Awaited the future with
A full well of ink
And feathers found on
Abundant fields of gold,
And forgot to write.
And furthermore she lived!
Response to http://www.napowrimo.netDay Twenty-six, prompt to write a portrait poem that plays with the meaning of the subject’s name. My response is a self-portait. This past fall my initials returned to their original, AF upon finalization of a divorce. I take a certain pride in reclaiming those initials, and the fact that I was a little feisty AF before AF was a thing.
My bedroom was at the back of our house -
the house with green shutters on Spring St.
that my parents bragged was over 150 years old.
In my closet lived the attic door.
It remained unnoticed most of the time –
square,
wooden,
resting in my closet ceiling
until I lay awake in bed
at night, when my mind
wandered and the house
made creaking sounds that my parents claimed
were due to its old age.
Then I wondered what might
exist up in the attic,
other than the boxes of Halloween costumes,
Christmas decorations and outgrown clothes.
To quell my fear
I resolved
to make friends with the ghosts in my mind -
the ones who slip through attic doors.
I imagined hosting elaborate parties for them right there in my bed.
I still sometimes lay sleepless
planning parties for them - the ghosts upstairs
the ones who can
slip through
attic doors.
These pics were generated by AI based on my poem above.
NaPoWriMo Day Nineteen prompt:
“Now, cast your mind back to your own childhood and write a poem about something that scared you – or was used to scare you – and which still haunts you (if only a little bit) today.”
Barrel shaped succulent black drops,
druplets in fact, they are an aggregate fruit -
clustered sweet sections, smooth against my tongue
until they burst.
Her fingers stained, she reaches for each - likes best
the slightly red and tart ones.
“I know what tart means!” she explains.
A berry squishes under my right big toe
in my sandal. A mockingbird lands
just above us. I hold down branches while she plucks.
Enough? “Not yet, a little more!”
Little green stems
stay attached. We finally decide our turquoise bowl is
full enough. We inspect our soles
stained deep purple-red, wiping berry bits onto the mat.
Small Burdens 